


Correspondent

by girlfromcarolina



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bucky Barnes & Shuri Friendship, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Disabled Character, Don't copy to another site, Everything in Wakanda is Amazing, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Flip Flop Fucking, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Switching, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers, Wakanda (Marvel), do not copy to another site, no reposting, which is a lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 01:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18001226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/girlfromcarolina
Summary: It started with Bucky sending him photos: the river with the sun gleaming on the surface or the moon’s silver streaks across the water. The children gathered around Bucky, teaching him a game. Words came eventually, thoughts and emotions laid down a few sentences at a time as they each began to feel more comfortable.The messages represented the chance to reconnect in ways they couldn’t while they hunted Zemo and tried to clear Bucky’s name. Some things were too difficult to say face-to-face; some questions were too complex.





	Correspondent

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning, this is pretty self-indulgent! After rewatching Black Panther and seeing Bucky at the end, I really wanted just a slice of life for him and Steve - a few days of peace. THEN I saw this porn and thought, 'damn, that would be perfect for Steve and Bucky!' So, some of the scenarios and positions come from that porn vid, modified for Bucky only having one arm. More of a challenge than I thought, since balance is seriously not something I think about a lot when I'm writing scenes like this.
> 
> So, this is 2/3rds flip-flopping porn (you are welcome), and 1/3rd me crying knowing what's going to happen to them in Infinity War. Please enjoy!

“ _White Wolf_.”

Steve Rogers rolls the unfamiliar words around on his tongue, pulse settling when he sees Bucky smile at his efforts from across the small table.

“It’s just a nickname,” Bucky tells him, leaning back and appearing more content than Steve has seen him in a long time. 

“It suits you. _White Wolf_.” Steve tries again, eager for his mouth to learn to shape the words properly. The name has significance for Bucky—hearing it melts the steel in his gaze the same way _Bucky_ used to when they were a couple of innocent punks back in Brooklyn—therefore Steve wants to get it right. “Did the kids come up with that?”

“Didn’t take ‘em long once I got out here.” Bucky sets their empty tray aside one-handed. Half an hour ago, it was piled high with a selection of Bucky’s favorite Wakandan foods for the two of them to share. King T’Challa and Princess Shuri were overly generous, especially when it came to one James Buchanan Barnes. “Word got around about what I’d done—how I was involved in helping the king bring Zemo to justice—and they thought I needed a name, too, since I fought alongside the Black Panther. So, ‘White Wolf.’”

“They seem to like you,” Steve says, remembering the smiles on the children’s faces as they ran laughing out of the hut as he walked up.

“They messed with me at first.” Bucky’s voice is full of warmth. “Told me everything I was doing wrong, taught me incorrect words for things, but pretty soon they were showing me their tech, teaching me about the land and the history of Wakanda.”

Bucky comes to sit across from Steve, golden light spilling in through the open door as the sun begins to set. Bucky’s hair looks auburn where the light hits, half the strands pulled back from his face in a haphazard knot. Effortless, like Bucky never considered what the loose strands would do to Steve; how his fingers would itch to reach out and smooth them behind Bucky’s ears.

Being here with Bucky, enjoying a simple discussion over a meal, is more than Steve ever thought to hope for. It’s inexplicably wonderful: a gift he’ll never take for granted. After Steve left his recovering friend in Wakanda, Shuri kept him updated on Bucky’s progress through heavily encrypted channels not even Tony Stark could hack into, and when he read that Bucky was out and living on his own so quickly, Steve didn’t waste any time flying in to see the miracle for himself.

During that first visit several months ago, Steve could barely rein in his emotions. There wasn’t enough time to appreciate the brilliance of Shuri’s treatment—the visit was cut short by Sam calling in a Code Get-the-Hell-Back-Here—and Shuri was with them the entire time. The atmosphere was light, a kind of celebration, yet Steve saw the heaviness in Bucky’s eyes, the weight of words they needed to say. Steve’s heart felt like it would beat out of his chest when he looked at Bucky. He was desperate to stay and get to know this man who had his best friend’s eyes and easy, cocksure grin in a super soldier’s body that had only known cruelty and roughness until he crossed paths with Steve again.

They were granted a few moments alone before Steve boarded the quinjet. Steve opened his mouth, no idea what he was about to say, when Bucky cut him off, right hand reaching for Steve’s wrist.

“I can’t come back with you,” Bucky told him, eyes on the landing pad, “if that’s what you were gonna ask.”

“No, Buck,” Steve quickly reassured him, laying his other hand carefully over Bucky’s. “I’m not sure what I was going to say. Nothing seems adequate, you know?”

One by one, Bucky’s fingers tightened their grip; the pressure was comforting in a way Steve had forgotten in the years since he came out of the ice.

“I didn’t want you to be upset when I said no.”

“I’m not,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t be. As much as I want you with me, you deserve something better than more time spent on the run.”

“Company would be a hell of a lot better this time.”

At that, Steve couldn’t help smiling. “You’ve got a good thing here. I wouldn’t want you to give it up.”

He turned back before the jet’s bay door closed and found Bucky watching him, unmoving.

“See you soon?”

Steve didn’t realize he’d formed it as a question until he saw Bucky nod and heard his reply. “Stay safe.”

In the time since that visit, Bucky was never far from Steve’s thoughts. He made contact whenever he could using those same encrypted channels, though there were times Steve went weeks without being able to respond to one of Bucky’s messages. Shuri checked in, as did T’Challa, although the king’s messages were more on a diplomatic level, but it was Bucky’s communications he looked forward to the most. It started with Bucky sending him photos: the river with the sun gleaming on the surface or the moon’s silver streaks across the water. The children gathered around Bucky, teaching him a game. Words came eventually, thoughts and emotions laid down a few sentences at a time as they each began to feel more comfortable.

The messages represented the chance to reconnect in ways they couldn’t while they hunted Zemo and tried to clear Bucky’s name. Some things were too difficult to say face-to-face; some questions were too complex. It reminded Steve of letters sent back and forth during the war in Europe, late-night thoughts and revelations written in a careful hand. Though few and far between, those letters from Bucky kept Steve sane until Dr. Erskine’s death set him on a different path. These days, Steve and Bucky talked more about the future than the past, a concept that made Steve more determined than ever to return to Wakanda as soon as he could.

When the opportunity finally came, Steve didn’t hesitate. He made certain Nat and Sam had things under control—they were safe and lying low in Finland for the time being—so there’d be no need to cut this visit short. He messaged Bucky and Shuri, and soon he was piloting the quinjet on a familiar flight path towards Wakanda’s protected borders.

It was Shuri who met Steve on the landing pad along with two of the Dora Milaje. Bucky was nowhere to be seen. The grinning princess reassured Steve that Bucky was waiting for him at the small encampment he now called home and, after a brief stop for supplies, food, and a change of clothes, Steve was back in the quinjet, following Shuri’s directions away from the city, heart beating faster the closer he flew.

Seeing Bucky again, though it had only been a few months, was like coming up for air after being submerged for too long. The feeling rushed through him, filled his lungs, and left him light headed. It required a Herculean effort not to rush Bucky and topple them both to the warm earth. Steve held back, part of him unsure how Bucky would react to the physical contact—one brief fumble born of intense emotion and relief before Siberia happened might not mean anything in the long run. As it turned out, he shouldn’t have worried. As soon as Steve was close enough, Bucky held out his arm and welcomed Steve’s hug.

“It’s nice,” Steve says now, watching Bucky take a deep, contented breath, “this place you’ve got here.” 

The hut feels worlds away from the loud, colorful labs where Shuri worked miracles, the ultra-modern medical facilities, or the non-stop activity at the vibranium mine. There are skins and blankets on the walls around them, interspersed with intricate pieces of tech, the warm earth tones so unlike the dark metal inside the quinjet. This is the first time Steve’s been here and already he’s immersed in a sense of home.

“Yeah?” Bucky scratches the side of his jaw. The scruff Steve saw last time is now a short beard, dark and uneven in places, yet looks as if it would be soft to the touch. “It’s more than enough. Worlds better than the holes I crawled into after you took down HYDRA.”

“I’ve seen nothing but the inside of the jet, drab safehouses, and even sadder motel rooms since Siberia,” Steve commiserates. Forcing his gaze away from Bucky, he looks out at the Wakandan sunset. It’s beautiful, sure, but despite the vista his eyes are drawn back across the table only to notice that Bucky isn’t looking at the sunset, either. “This is a little slice of heaven, right here.”

There’s so much Steve wants to ask him. He wants to hear the confessions out loud that were hidden in the messages they sent back and forth. Today came at a cost, and though Steve paid it willingly, he refuses to push beyond what he’s earned.

“You look good,” Bucky says, breaking his stare.

Steve laughs. “Guess being a fugitive agrees with me.”

“I meant the outfit,” Bucky cracks wise, “but your face ain’t half bad, either.” He follows that with a long sweep of Steve’s body head-to-toe.

Beneath his robes, Steve flushes hot. He arrived wearing the sort of nondescript clothing that had become his second uniform since he was placed on the U.S. government’s most wanted list: black tactical pants, a gray t-shirt, and an equally colorless jacket. On the landing pad, Shuri had taken one look at Steve’s outfit and declared him ‘ _absolutely impossible_ ’ before having him escorted inside. While a meal and supplies were pulled together at her request, Shuri grabbed dark blue robes from another room (Steve prayed they weren’t from T’Challa’s closet) and tossed them at Steve.

“What are these for?” he asked, staring at his armful of soft fabric. Every so often, his eyes caught a glimmer of silver woven throughout the garments.

Shuri rolled her eyes. “For you, Captain.”

“I thought you said Bucky was at his camp.”

“You’re not wearing _that_ ,” Shuri insisted. “Just because you’re not meeting here doesn’t mean you need to show up looking like you’ve slept in your clothes for a week. He deserves better.”

Steve sighed. “That bad, huh?”

He took Shuri’s advice and changed as fast as he could, sparing a few minutes to wash his face and neck with cool water. His mind kept circling back to Shuri’s implication that she was dressing Steve for something more than a meeting with an old friend. Clearly, the idea didn’t bother her in the slightest, and Steve was grateful that perhaps Bucky found someone here to confide in. It was Shuri, after all, who devised and implemented the treatment that wiped Bucky of the HYDRA programming and allowed his old memories to slowly resurface so as not to overwhelm him.

The princess smiled when Steve emerged in the borrowed robes. “Give Sergeant Barnes my best,” she told Steve before he reboarded the quinjet. “And I hope I don’t see either one of you for a few days.”

“Your highness,” he replied, hand over his heart and chin tucked so Shuri wouldn’t catch the way his cheeks flushed.

Across the table, Bucky is still watching Steve. 

“Shuri gave me these,” he explains, touching the midnight blue fabric over his chest. The jacket falls to mid-thigh, carved wooden fastenings holding it closed. The matching pants are loose and comfortable, drawstring tied around his hips. Shuri had even provided Steve with more appropriate shoes; Steve was grateful to leave his heavy boots on the quinjet, which was currently secured on an empty hilltop nearby.

“I’ll have to thank her for that, too,” Bucky teases, sounding so much like that boy from Brooklyn that Steve’s heart leaps into his throat. It’s an unfair thought to have. Bucky hasn’t reverted back to the man he was before Zola experimented on him—before the fall from the train—yet he’s not the Winter Soldier, either. The Bucky in front of him is a new man Steve is still getting to know. And he wants to know everything.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Buck,” Steve says, letting his tone sink into something more intimate.

Bucky stretches out in his chair, long legs bumping Steve under the table that certainly wasn’t built for a pair of men their size. “Must be the water.”

Steve might look alright in his borrowed clothes, but it’s nothing compared to Bucky’s appearance. When Steve left him in Wakanda the first time, he already looked healthier than he had in Washington D.C. He’s come a long way from being that pale, haunted figure, still fighting the persistent cold of the cryo chambers. Back then, every inch of him resembled the ghost from SHIELD’s files. 

Bucky’s bare shoulder is lightly freckled from exposure to the African sun, skin and hair healthier now that he actually sleeps on a regular basis. It helps that Bucky no longer needs to worry where his next meal is coming from. Instead of surviving on scraps, here he has what he needs to thrive. Steve only wishes he could stick around to see more of his progress.

“I know the princess is working on an arm,” Bucky announces, cutting into Steve’s quiet, visual appreciation.

This is news for Steve. “That a problem?”

Bucky shakes his head. “She asked if it was alright. She had the scans and measurements from before. I mean, I’m good without it these days,” he adds, reminding Steve of more than one exchange they had about the arm in their messages back and forth. Right now, Bucky’s stump is covered by a thin compression sleeve of Shuri’s design, threads of vibranium evident in the fabric she used. “Maybe I could handle having it again someday.”

And while Bucky might not have his most obvious weapon, Steve can see at least three items in his home that could be utilized in addition to his enhanced strength. Most notably, the long, smooth walking stick in the corner. Bucky is far from defenseless, here.

“I told her it was fine,” Bucky continues. “Figured it was good to have it ready, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you needed me.”

“Buck—” Steve struggles, battling with the selfish part of him that wants Bucky at his side no matter what; he’s lost too many people that are important to him over the last few months. Steve wants to keep his family as close as possible. “We talked about this. I’m not gonna pull you away. They’ve been so good to you here. I wouldn’t ask you to give that up.”

Bucky looks across at Steve with an intensity he remembers seeing in the Winter Soldier’s eyes when Steve tried to help him, only now it’s warmed with years of recovered familiarity and full of conviction. He would offer this man the world if he thought it would be enough to show Bucky just how far he’s willing to go for his safety.

“You wouldn’t have to ask,” Bucky says, hiding nothing in the smoky texture of his voice. “You’re the only one I’d give it all up for.”

Steve’s not sure which of them moves first. In the blink of an eye, they meet in the middle of the hut, standing chest to chest. It’s a rush when Bucky’s gaze drops to Steve’s mouth, and he realizes they’ve been building to this moment since Steve touched down in Wakanda.

“Finally,” he hears Bucky whisper as Steve reaches for him. “I thought you were gonna hold out for another visit.”

Steve grins and brings their foreheads together to steady himself. Bucky cups Steve’s face with his hand the way he used to when they could steal a few minutes during the SSR’s hunt for Red Skull. Steve feels a phantom touch on the other side.

“I didn’t want to push,” he admits, only to have Bucky counter with, “You always knew when I was ready, Steve. I thought you weren’t ready this time, or that something had changed.”

All Steve has to do is lean in to show Bucky that he’s only half-right, because while nearly everything has changed since the last time they were truly together—from the price of a movie ticket to phones to actual alien invasions—there has never been a time when Steve didn’t want to kiss Bucky. Friendly kisses bursting with affection, relieved kisses they thought they wouldn’t get again, desperate kisses when time was running out. Kisses that screamed _please don’t leave me again._

This kiss is both calming and incendiary. It quells the fear and anxiety Steve’s been carrying since the Winter Soldier appeared in D.C., closing a long and difficult chapter. It also reignites the fire and lust, something Steve never let himself feel after he woke up in the 21st century; that part of him remained frozen until he looked over in Berlin and finally saw _Bucky_ behind those eyes.

Pressed together in the middle of the hut, the kiss builds from slow and searching to deep and familiar. Bucky’s tongue gets bolder as he remembers Steve’s weaknesses one by one. Not to be outdone, Steve holds Bucky firmly like he might disappear with the setting sun and bites at his lower lip.

That earns him a growled, “Damn, Stevie.”

The sensations aren’t entirely familiar, though. Bucky is bigger and stronger than he was back in Brooklyn when they first learned the language of each other’s bodies or during the war when Steve grew into his spirit and started giving as good as he got. Steve doesn’t want to think about the years Bucky spent as the Winter Soldier and the things he must have done, the experience he gained carrying out HYDRA’s missions between deep freezes. The hints are there in the way his tongue flicks sharply against the back of Steve’s teeth, the line of tension that remains across his shoulders, and the way his eyes never fully close when Steve’s kissing him.

Bucky steps back before Steve loses all sense of time and rationality. “Don’t want anyone getting a free show,” he says, drawing a hanging blanket across the open doorway to cut them off from the sinking sun. 

It’s dim inside the hut, yet Steve can see Bucky perfectly. His clothing, the fabrics dyed deep red and gold, is slightly rumpled and Steve’s hands ache to finish the job; he can’t stand not touching Bucky, not after they’ve been kept apart.

“We could move this to the jet, if you think—”

“I like it here,” Steve cuts him off. Even if he didn’t catch the way Bucky’s gaze wavered when he made the offer, Steve likes the hut. While not the most private place in Wakanda, it’s warm and filled with pieces of the new life Bucky has been building, and damn if Steve isn’t going to make sure he’s a part of it, too. That, and he has a feeling Shuri made sure they won’t be interrupted.

Steve’s on to her matchmaking.

“How’s the bed?” he asks with a grin, nodding towards the low, wide pallet against the far wall, the one covered in mats and thick woven blankets.

“Softer than it looks,” Bucky says, licking his lips. “But not too soft. Wouldn’t be able to sleep if it was.”

Steve shakes his head, smile turning fond. He takes a step towards Bucky. “How do we…”

“Got that covered, too.”

Steve is close enough to see that the confidence in Bucky’s smirk reaches all to way his eyes. Even in the way Bucky stands, it’s evident that so much weight has been lifted since King T’Challa offered him a place in Wakanda. Princess Shuri truly was a miracle worker with a mind that rivaled any human or non-human Steve has met. He pushes those thoughts away, though; he has no intention of thinking about anyone else for the rest of the night.

Hips together, chests together, and lips inches apart, the distance between them shrinks as Bucky’s hand slides along Steve’s spine. Anticipation builds then overflows, and this time the message in Bucky’s kiss is unmistakable. 

Steve feels Bucky’s hand between his shoulders, fisting textured fabric before running up the back of Steve’s neck. His tongue is in Steve’s mouth when he starts running his fingers through Steve’s hair—grown out of his ‘poster-boy’ image over the last few months—scratching and tugging and sending Steve’s blood rushing between his legs.

It’s more of a stumble, less of a walk, towards Bucky’s bed, hands too busy finding the gaps and give between layers of fabric to reach out and steady their progress. Standing beside the pallet, a dent in the middle the size of a broad back, Steve manages to unwrap part of the robe over Bucky’s shoulder, exposing the vibranium sleeve and the scarring visible above the seam. Bucky stiffens in his arms and Steve kisses him through it, leaving no doubt that Steve considers him whole no matter what.

The last time they touched like this was just before Siberia, the HYDRA arm still in place. It was little more than a frantic fumble: bodies seeking a connection before stepping out into the unknown. And Steve could never be disappointed with Bucky, physically. It’s honest this way. It’s them. Neither of them remained the same during the long journey it’s taken to get here. One or both could have lost much more than an arm.

Bucky’s hand slips out of Steve’s hair to toy with the wooden fastenings of Steve’s borrowed robes.

“Mind losing the fancy jacket?”

Steve’s voice is an interested rumble. “I thought you liked it on me.”

“Might like it better on the floor.” Bucky undoes the toggles one-handed and leaves the robe open across Steve’s chest. He lingers for a moment and stares at bare skin, gaze filled with a familiar hunger. When he places his hand palm down on warm skin, he misses the way Steve’s eyes soften. Unlike other parts of his body growing more and more interested.

The need finally becomes too great. Without saying a word, they finish stripping each other in a matter of minutes, both left standing naked—with the exception of the vibranium sleeve—beside Bucky’s bed, chests heaving as they look their fill.

“You sure?” Steve is compelled to ask despite the way Bucky’s tongue sweeps across his lower lip.

“I’m not gonna pretend we have it easy right now.” Bucky is confident in his nudity the way he’d been back in Brooklyn: a consequence of stifling summer heat and close quarters. “Never thought we’d make it this far, and we’re in a world of shit, but that’s out there.” He nods towards the fabric-covered door. “In here, this is what matters.”

Steve’s unprepared for the way those words strike the center of his chest, and he no longer has a shield to protect himself. Hearing Bucky speak his mind, being the one to reassure Steve for a change...it almost hits him harder than the sentiment itself. He’s still wearing a grin when Bucky’s lips ghost across his cheek.

“What do you want?”

Steve’s response is pure instinct and base need, no filter between his mind and his mouth. “Everything,” he says. “That sounds like too much—”

“No,” Bucky cuts him off, “it sounds perfect.” 

Bucky’s expression darkens, gray-blue eyes clouding over in anticipation of a much-needed storm across dry lands. “That gives me an idea,” he taunts. Steve feels those words drag like friction across his dick.

“Anything,” Steve swears, ignoring how the word applies to more than what’s happening here and now.

Bucky was right—the bed is softer than it looks. Steve lowers himself to sit, hands skimming up the back of Bucky’s legs as he settles himself on top of Steve’s thighs, leaving them comfortably pressed together. His fingers stroll slowly over Bucky’s flank, idling around the curve of his lower back before massaging up along his spine. When Bucky kisses him, it gains heat quickly, their hips rolling against one another.

“I want you to fuck me,” he says, the words hard to form with Bucky’s teeth nipping at his lower lip.

Bucky releases him. “Everything, remember?”

“Buck—”

Their eyes meet, and Bucky whispers, “Trust me.”

There’s never been a time when Steve didn’t, no matter where they were or _who_ they were. Not deep down in his heart where it really mattered. He surrenders and leans into the next kiss, his tongue surging to meet Bucky’s, need making him reckless as he presses for more. Steve wants to fill every moment he has in Wakanda with nothing but Bucky, though it could never be enough to sustain him when he finally has to leave again.

But that’s days away—if he’s lucky and Sam doesn’t call him back—and tonight is for _everything_.

Steve feels as if he’s finally living again here with Bucky straddling his thighs, hand heavy on Steve’s shoulder. The breath is forced out of his lungs in a rush as Bucky uses that grip to press Steve down on his back, leaning over him with a smirk Steve feels compelled to kiss off his mouth. When they pull apart, Steve finds himself staring up at an incredible view. Reddish-gold light spills through the narrowest gaps between the hanging fabric and the doorway and hits his shoulders. It’s enough to see the way Bucky’s expression is a mixture of fondness and disbelief. He knows what Bucky is feeling; Steve never thought he’d have this again, either.

He never forgot the pleasure of Bucky’s mouth on his cock, just as seductive and indulgent now as it used to be. Despite offers, invitations, and flat-out begging from his new friends and teammates to just ‘go get laid already,’ Steve hasn’t felt these sensations in a lifetime.

Bucky always sucked cock like it was his singular focus. There’s no tease, no meandering slowly towards his goal. He takes Steve’s cock between his lips and moans, his eager tongue reacquainting itself with the taste of Steve’s skin. The rhythm and pressure are familiar, taken straight from Steve’s memories and put to use. Either Bucky remembers what Steve liked or he’s become even better at reading reactions, guided by every gasp and cut-off thrust of Steve’s hips. Either way, Bucky renders Steve breathless in a matter of minutes, Steve’s hands pleading through touch across Bucky’s shoulders and the back of his neck, careful not to nudge him off balance.

“No, Buck—” he whines when Bucky lets his cock fall from between friction-pink lips.

“It’s all about stamina.” Bucky’s breath is a whisper across sensitive skin. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost that, Stevie.”

Sitting up, legs folded beneath him, Bucky reaches for something beside the bed. The small black bottle in his hand isn’t anything Steve recognizes; from the sparkle in Bucky’s eyes, it’s clearly something he’s going to enjoy.

Bucky passes the bottle to Steve. “You mind?” Steve snaps open the top, trusting his friend, and pours the thick, clear liquid into Bucky’s open palm. “I love this country. They’ve got the best stuff.”

“Show me,” Steve demands, feeling heat rush throughout his body. He plants his feet and raises his knees on either side of Bucky’s hips. Bucky leans against his leg and drops his hand between Steve’s thighs, spreading the slick liquid over his ass.

“I remember this being one of your favorite parts.” Bucky’s looking down, gaze shining with wonder, carefully pressing a finger into Steve’s welcoming body.

“What else do you remember?”

“Whatever I can.” Bucky’s fingers stretch and twist, seeking the best fit. Steve opens for him, rolling into the shallow thrusts. Bucky’s right, he loved this part: the waves of sensation, the cleansing fire as his muscles gave in and relaxed. More than anything, he loved watching Bucky’s face. The focus, the fascination, the way he licked his lips knowing that he owned Steve, body, heart, and soul.

“I remember you letting me do this whenever we had a night to ourselves. Taking my time, winding you up ‘til you were begging me.” Bucky hooks his fingers, following a memory. Three now, and Steve’s knees are shaking and his thighs feel heavy. “The memories can’t hurt me anymore.”

Steve gasps, his mind fighting to wrest control away from his body. “Buck—”

“Don’t apologize. It was worth the pain for even a glimpse of who I used to be.”

Sadness and anger cloud Steve’s senses. He doesn’t know whether to cry or scream. He forces them down; he’s spent too much time in the company of both in the years since he came out of the ice. Fortunately, he has the perfect distraction between his legs.

“C’mon. I’m ready. Give me everything.”

Rather than feeling the hard, filling pressure of Bucky’s cock after the longest dry spell in human history, Bucky drops the bottle of lubrication in Steve’s hand.

He’s confused, still panting when he mutters, “I thought…”

“I said everything, Steve. I meant it.”

It comes to Steve in a flash as the memory surfaces from beneath a layer of ice and darkness. Hidden away while the other Commandos slept or kept watch, he and Bucky whispered about taking one another, back and forth, giving and fucking until the sun came up. It was one of the last peaceful nights they had. Steve wants nothing more than to fulfill that promise tonight.

Bucky shifts forward to straddle Steve’s waist and spreads his knees, opening his body and putting himself on display. He’s temptation from every angle: hair on his chest ringing peaked nipples, cock sliding across Steve’s stomach. His ass accepts Steve’s fingers easily, and Steve is certain he’s not the only one who’s spent lonely nights imagining what could have been and what might be. The song in Steve’s blood never dims, kept on edge by the vision above him and the stretch of his own body, the echo of Bucky’s fingers inside of him. He hits his limit when Bucky is rocking back and forth, hand gripping Steve’s chest hard enough to bruise if that were even possible.

“Now, Buck. Don’t make me wait.” He could take Bucky then and there, drop him onto his cock and chase a new memory, but every cell in his body is craving possession; from his toes to the tip of his tongue, he wants to be Bucky’s again. He’s waited over 75 years to get that part of his identity back.

Lying on their left sides, Steve’s back arched against the press of Bucky’s chest, he finally gets what he needs. With Bucky’s arm wrapped around him, it’s up to Steve to guide Bucky’s cock inside. Slow, halting progress for the first couple of inches as they both adjust and then the rest all at once when his patience runs down. There are miles of skin-to-skin contact; he can feel Bucky everywhere, in every place that’s been hollow and cold since before the ice. Since the train. He wants this moment to last forever.

“Nice ‘n easy,’ he groans, threading his fingers through Bucky’s and hissing when he feels warm lips on the back of his neck. “We’ve got all night.”

Those lips curl back, teeth grazing his skin. “Wasn’t planning on taking it easy.”

That’s all the warning he’s given before Bucky moves, using his legs and arm to roll onto his back in a single, smooth movement. It’s fast and ruthless, as if they were locked in combat. Steve finds himself lying back on that solid chest—muscles frozen for a split second until his brain dismisses his _fight_ response—and he throws out his arms to remain steady and balanced on the pallet.

Their lone fumble in this century before tonight in no way prepared Steve to be fucked by a man whose strength now matches his own. He had some idea of the way Bucky could move, fighting in close quarters and experiencing firsthand the pain that body was capable of inflicting. From the way his cock responds, filling fast after the overwhelming rush of penetration, he enjoys it very much.

The position is wildly unfamiliar—Steve’s thighs spread over Bucky’s legs, the strain and pull of his muscles only heightening his arousal—yet it feels amazing.

“Let go,” Bucky growls in his ear, “I’ve got you.”

Steve lets the tension bleed out of his triceps and biceps and relaxes into Bucky’s firm, one-armed hold across his chest. He’s exposed, vulnerable, yet with Bucky’s hand splayed palm-down on his quivering stomach, he feels safer than he has in years, as if the world consists of only two people.

Bucky drives his hips up and Steve melts further and further with every thrust, tongue loose as he pants for more. Using his steel hold as leverage and planting his feet, Bucky’s cock glides smoothly in and out of Steve’s body. Forgotten sensations radiate throughout his core, nerves gone so long unused now awakened from their atrophy. Bucky pushes Steve’s hips down, a sniper’s aim leading him right to Steve’s prostate, and the resulting sound echoes throughout the hut. 

The pleasure is incredible. As sweat builds between them, Steve slips to the side and swings his arm around the back of Bucky’s neck. This way, Bucky’s mouth is inches away from Steve’s chest; he can feel each hot puff of breath against his skin.

“Stroke your cock.” Steve hears Bucky’s command over the dull groans of the pallet protesting their weight and the slap of skin on skin. “Get it nice and hard for me.” 

It doesn’t take Steve long to comply—with a few tight, twisting strokes, his cock is hard and engorged in his hand, begging for more friction. He dances too close to the edge, body clenching around Bucky as a hiss escapes through gritted teeth. In seconds, Bucky heaves his chest and pushes Steve up and off his cock. As soon as Steve catches his balance, he turns on his knees and presses himself between Bucky’s legs.

“My turn,” Bucky is panting, hair on his chest matted and dark from sweat and Steve writhing on top of him. He reaches for Steve who is already slicking his cock with more lubrication. “Been waiting a hell of a long time for this.”

That wait ends now as Steve plows forward, guiding himself into Bucky slowly but without pause until he’s all the way in and feeling his best friend’s pulse from the inside.

“Oh fuck, yes…” he hears Bucky praise as he’s filled, thighs coming up to squeeze Steve’s torso. From the slack expression on Bucky’s face, he’s drowning in the satisfaction of a craving fulfilled. Every one of Steve’s thrusts is deep and powerful, leaving no doubt that he intends to claim Bucky thoroughly. 

He circles his hands from Bucky’s knees around to the backs of his thighs, levers his legs further apart and looms over him, forcing his dick that much deeper until Bucky throws his head back against the blankets. His hair is wild and loose, worked free from the tie that held it in place; Steve tangles one hand in those untamed strands and leans down to kiss parted lips. The scratch of his beard is maddening, one sensation layered over the next until Steve can’t separate one pleasure from another.

Bucky’s hand slaps down in the middle of Steve’s back and skims up to the base of his neck, twisting his fingers in Steve’s hair and tugging. Between lopsided kisses, he begs Steve to move faster.

“I wanted nice and easy, remember?”

“Damn, Steve. Please, I need more.”

Bucky’s erection has barely waned where it’s caught between their bodies. Already yearning to have it stretching him open once more, Steve props himself on one hand and strokes Bucky with the other in counterpoint to the back and forth swing of his hips.

“Too much?” Steve asks when fingers clamp around the back of his neck.

“No, no, keep going! Just like that.”

A rosy flush has has spread from the hollow of Bucky’s throat and across his collarbones only to disappear beneath the vibranium sleeve on his left side. Steve’s mouth waters, hungry to lay his mouth on all that warm skin, hoping he’ll have plenty of chances before he’s called away.

Steve chases the perfect rhythm; the last time he did this, the body surrounding him was built differently. He wants to learn, to know every inch the way he used to. He’s seen how Bucky fights—no holds barred, using his entire body to gain even the slightest edge on his opponent—and now he needs to experience how Bucky fucks.

He finds it when he rears back and wraps Bucky’s legs around his waist and holds them in place, bringing his hips up just enough for Steve’s next thrust to grind across at the perfect angle. Bucky gasps and claws the blankets, fighting to remain in control. He can’t speak, nothing but grunts and stuttered breaths as Steve rams him at a relentless pace. Dropping his gaze from Bucky’s pleasure-washed expression, he lands on his cock, now flushed and full and staining Bucky’s skin with slick preejaculate.

“Need you again, Buck,” he manages to say. He wants to be in Bucky’s place, wants to look up and lose himself in that familiar stare; he wants to leave Captain America far behind and simply be Steve for as long as possible.

“God, look at you.” Bucky’s voice holds a certain amount of awe a few minutes later once they’ve flipped positions. “Can’t say which is better. Being fucked by that gorgeous dick or watching you take me like there’s nothing in the world you’d rather be doing.”

Steve is lying on the pallet, spine twisted with Bucky straddling one of his legs and clutching the other against his chest. He uses his hold on Steve to steady himself, to pitch his hips forward into the wide, scissored-open space between Steve’s legs. The angle takes his cock on an entirely new trajectory, one that punches the breath from Steve’s lungs at the crest of each thrust. Steve lets go, sinks completely into the hedonism of being fucked across the makeshift bed, nothing within his control. He’s loose and receptive, allowing Bucky to dictate the the rhythm and depth while trusting him to keep Steve’s arousal alive.

He whines and pleads with an open stare when Bucky slows down, each push becoming an interminable tease. Every inch drags along his walls, and Steve wants to rock back and take more until he’s overflowing, but Bucky’s grasp is strong and commanding.

“You’ll get your chance. Let me enjoy looking at you like this, all spread out for me.”

“Buck—” Those words shoot straight to his core and inflame his senses.

“I know you’ve got patience to go with all that stamina.”

Not when Bucky is fucking him, he doesn’t. What patience Steve brought to Wakanda evaporated the moment he had his best friend in his arms again.

Bucky’s tortuously drawn out thrusts push Steve towards the edge of the pallet, one arm flung over the side. He could fuck Steve straight onto the floor without missing a beat and Steve wouldn’t care so long as this bliss never ended.

“Fuck, Steve, _fuck_...” Those long, even strokes begin to stutter. Press, press, and stop. Steve recognizes that broken tempo, knows that Bucky is close to the edge. His mouth drops open around a soundless cry when he feels Bucky pull out and leave him empty. With Bucky no longer holding him open, Steve’s leg drops to the bed. 

On the other side of the pallet, Bucky is slumped forward with his hand on his knee. Sweaty brown hair hides his face, and Steve doesn’t start breathing again until he sees the way Bucky is shaking with barely contained laughter.

“That was almost too good,” he says when he finally looks up.

Steve smiles. “You didn’t have to stop.”

“You think I’m done with you already?”

“Never,” Steve swears, reaching for Bucky’s hand and pulling him close. The word is echoed against his own lips when Bucky leans down for a kiss.

Their tongues meet in a relaxed duel, neither one attempting to dominate the kiss, and Steve uses the distraction to lift Bucky over his hips, placing his ass directly over Steve’s cock. He’s been hard for so long that the tantalizing pressure of that soft skin where he’s overly sensitive threatens to undo him.

“Lookin’ for a ride?”

Steve nips Bucky’s bottom lip. “Seem to remember you enjoying that.” He’s close enough to see a flash of uncertainty in Bucky’s eyes, the fear that his missing arm might be an issue, and Steve doesn’t hesitate to reassure him. “I’ve got you, Buck,” he promises, raising his knees to brace Bucky from behind.

Not that long ago, Steve thought a sight like this was relegated to his dreams. Watching Bucky fuck himself on Steve’s cock is better than any of his memories, better than his lonely fantasies in the years between waking up in New York City and seeing the Winter Soldier unmasked in Washington D.C.

Bucky strains to keep his movements steady, fucking back while Steve’s hands caress and support. The effort is plainly written on his face and Steve, after only a few minutes, gathers Bucky close and rolls them both. 

“Don’t stop—” he hears from those coveted lips as Steve guides Bucky down onto his stomach.

He guides his cock gently back inside, driving the full length into Bucky’s willing body. “Never gonna stop, Buck. You and me, we’ve got nothing but time, now.” Even as he says it, Steve knows it’s not entirely true. There are still threats to Bucky’s safety, broken promises Steve needs to mend; he also knows there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure they’re free someday.

With Bucky laid out beneath him, Steve’s mouth roams his shoulders, kissing his way from the cooler texture of the vibranium sleeve to the base of Bucky’s neck. He crowds into Bucky’s space, fucks into him with swift, sure strokes until Bucky is crying out against Steve’s forearm. 

Whether it’s the illusion of submission—all that strength and power trapped at his mercy—or the way Steve’s synapses are firing one after another causing a cascade of pleasure throughout his body, he’s reached the end of his tether. His stamina can only carry him so far and, over the course of the last hour, Bucky has wrecked him in the best possible way. 

He comes on the next snap of his hips, shuddering with each burst that Bucky’s muscles coax out of him. Nothing has ever felt better than fucking Bucky through an exceptionally long orgasm, his lungs aching as he attempts to breathe through the overwhelming rush. Collapsing against Bucky, he almost misses the urgent roll of his lover’s hips against the blankets.

“Steve, fuck—gotta move,” he’s muttering, trying to find the best friction with Steve’s weight keeping him pinned.

Careful not to pull his cock out too quickly, Steve rolls off and winds up face down on the bed. The pallet shifts and creaks, and he hears Bucky push himself up and take several deep, steadying breaths.

There's obvious strain in his voice when he asks, “Not gonna leave me hanging, are you?”

Steve shakes his head and mutters into the woven fabric. “Fuck me, Buck.” There’s an emptiness within him and, even wiped out by a mind-blowing orgasm, Steve craves more.

It comes in the form of a hand on his hip that guides him onto his knees. Steve’s practically boneless and Bucky’s cock slips in without resistance. Ass up at the perfect level, he’s able to fuck Steve roughly, using his grip to pull Steve back against him. Despite having come already, the aftershocks roll through Steve, each pulse nearly as good as having his cock stroked. He rears up on one elbow to look back, eager to see Bucky’s face transform in climax.

“Steve—”

“Do it, Buck.”

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky pulls out with a desperate hiss and lets the first pulse hit his skin before taking himself in hand and fucking the rest into Steve’s open body. Claiming him, inside and out, and Steve no longer possesses the wherewithal to protest; he marked Bucky, too, after all.

It’s a wicked thrill, the knowledge that Bucky is fucking him with his come before he goes soft. Steve wonders if he’ll be able to keep any of it inside him for the next round—the thought has him grinning even as Bucky stops thrusting and falls to the side, momentum taking Steve down with him.

One of the blankets is sacrificed to wipe the sweat from their chests and the come from between their legs. When his limbs recover, Bucky stands and turns on one of the lamps with a brush of his fingers, filling the hut with a dim blue light. He steps outside to take a piss and, no doubt, to check their surroundings. Wakanda may be the best sanctuary they’ve got, but no one would blame Bucky for being extra vigilant. He steps back inside the hut with no sign of tension in his face and Steve knows they’re all clear.

With each breath, Steve drifts further and further towards total contentment. He listens to the river gently lapping the shore outside Bucky’s hut, hears the sounds native to the African night. His problems are half a world away and his heart is crawling back onto the bed to lie beside him.

Bucky breaks the silence. “That was pretty good for a couple of centenarians.”

“Only pretty good?” Steve scoffs, grinning sleepily. “My heart might give out next time if we’re not careful. Haven’t exactly been practicing, Buck.” 

Expecting a crude comeback, Steve glances over when Bucky doesn’t respond. The expression on his face is serene but his gaze is clouded, turned inward.

“Buck?”

Steel gray eyes meet blue. “You’ve seen all the reports, Steve. You know what I’ve done, the missions I was assigned. You...you’ve gotta know I’m no saint.”

“I didn’t fall in love with a saint,” Steve says. There’s nothing to think about, no angle to consider. He’s been Bucky’s since Brooklyn, no matter what came in between. “Neither did you.”

There’s a twist to Bucky’s lips when he admits, “There were men...and women. Always during a mission, but—”

Steve cuts him off. This is one confession he doesn’t need to hear, because it wouldn’t change a thing. “I don’t care, Buck. That wasn’t really you—we both know that.”

“I can remember them. It wasn’t just the good memories that came back.”

Steve draws Bucky close, hoping to make him feel safe. The offer to help him forget is on the tip of Steve’s tongue, but he knows what HYDRA’s scientists did to his best friend by wiping his memories over and over. He could never be that cruel, even in jest.

“Guess we’ll just have to make some new memories, then.”

“Steve—”

“I didn’t come back to you for just one night,” Steve says. “This is just the beginning, Buck, I swear. Someday, I’ll be able to settle down for good.”

“They’ll never clear my name. You might be free, but I won’t.”

“You and me, that’s the only deal I want.” Steve can’t see a future without Bucky in it. Not one worth living.

Bucky sighs. “Then I hope you like huts, vibranium clothing, and don’t mind knowing a Princess who insists on dropping by at the most inconvenient times, because I don’t think I’ll be getting out of Wakanda any time soon.”

“You know what? I think it’s growing on me.”

Steve yawns, watches Bucky do the same, and soaks in the feeling of peace for the first time in years. He falls asleep thinking about seeing Bucky in the warm glow of the Wakandan sunrise tomorrow morning. And the one after that. And the one ten years down the line when they’re both done running.

They have time.

 

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at this pairing in the Marvel Universe. My previous Marvel fics have been Clint/Coulson.
> 
> Kudos are wonderful! ♥ Comments would make me cry in a good way :)
> 
> [kelleigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlfromcarolina/pseuds/kelleigh) is where you can find all of my non-Marvel stories. [hurricanekelleigh](http://hurricanekelleigh.tumblr.com/) is where I hang out on tumblr.


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